A Morning Run Late
by queenofowls
Summary: She never does this usually, but for once, what wakes her is not the light of the rising sun-but the sound of birds and urgent knocking on their door. Or, the Archbishop wakes up late and misses out on her normal morning kiss with Dedue. Chaos ensues. (For him, anyway.) [Dedue/f!Byleth] Cover Art by: @tsuyuus


The light raps deepen into fist-heavy thumps as Dedue and Byleth sleep soundly beside each other. Normally the lighter sleeper of the two, he stirs first, reaching out with glued-shut eyes to reach for Byleth's bare shoulder.

"_Mm?_"

"Door."

When she doesn't move, Dedue lets out a groan as he forces his aching body to sit up, the sheets sliding down his torso to expose his bare skin to the open air. There is a small selfish part of him that wishes to declare a firm _"I told you so"_ as he looks down at Byleth's unmoving form, her brows furrowed to betray the fact that her consciousness is stirring. The night before, when she had approached the edge of their bed, hair still wet from her bath with a certain look of deceptive disinterest that he knows all too well, he knew within his bones that the hour was too late for what she was thinking.

Only Byleth would have such activities on her mind when they'd only _just_ returned from territory deep in the former Leicester Alliance on a mission that would've been more bloody if hostages weren't involved. By the time their weary entourage completed the march back to Garreg Mach, the midnight hour had long since come and rolled by, and he had been certain that she was as exhausted as he. Yet... like clockwork, something about their constant near-death experiences makes her reach out to his touch for comfort. He never has and cannot imagine a time when he will deny it, in short because even if he does not understand it, he, too, loves the touch of Byleth's hands and the comfort they provide.

Yes... all she had done mere hours before was look at him with those pale, piercing eyes, and like a fool, he pretended that three hours of sleep would be enough to carry them through the day just so that he could indulge her passions guilt-free.

He gently turns to stroke her head with a large, warm hand, and as her eyelids flutter, struggling to open, he leans downwards to kiss her into awareness. Before his lips touch hers, he whispers her name. "Byleth-" Her eyes fly open.

"What's the hour?"

He isn't sure how to respond, but Seteth's unwanted reply seeps through the oak door.

"_Late_, Archbishop. The guests from House Daphnel await you in the audience chamber as they have been. For the past _thirty minutes._" From the other side of the door, Seteth answers, his voice carefully unamused. Carefully, Dedue thinks, because he would likely burst into laughter if he could see Byleth now, her expression the closest he's ever seen to panic-stricken as she rolls away from him and out of the bed.

He'd been hoping to complete his downward motion for a brief morning kiss but... well. Dedue hides his disappointment as his eyes trail over the curve of the skin of Byleth's pale, exposed hips, bent over as she rifles through a dresser for clean under garments to wear.

He... he can kiss her later.

Byleth raises her voice as she scrambles to slip her elegant robes over her body. "I thought they weren't due until eleven."

"You are mistaken." Seteth's voice is stiff with displeasure. "They were due at _half-past ten_, Archbishop and currently it _is_ eleven, Archbishop." His repetition of her title is _almost_ sarcastic, even if Seteth would feign ignorance had she questioned his tone.

Byleth _tsks_ quietly.

"We will be there momentarily."

With a seemingly satisfied '_hmph_', Seteth's footsteps march away as Dedue probes curiously.

"_We?_"

Byleth spares him a glance as she laces the black centerpiece of the Archbishop's robes around her hips. "Were you not intending on greeting them as well, Captain? I would think you'd be pleased to see an old classmate." She... isn't exactly wrong but... the sheets feel good on his skin. Dedue is momentarily tempted to stretch his body out on the bed and let the sun drift above and below without leaving the comfort of its cushions.

Byleth would never forgive him for making her face their guests alone.

He forces himself out of the bed, his breath slightly stuttering as he nurses the bruised rib he'd earned in Leicester. _At least it isn't another scar_, he thinks, despite the fact that he cannot deny that he loves the rare moments when Byleth, chin resting on his chest with her pale hair strewn across his bronzed chest, stares into his eyes and traces each one on his face with the lightest of fingers and an expression he doesn't quite understand. The fact that his wife seems to love them so helps him accept them more easily than he would've thought.

He rubs his own eyes and stretches mildly as he stands up, taking long strides towards the dresser to select his own garments.

Beside him, he hears the sound of Byleth dropping... something. He looks over his shoulder in concern, only to see the Archbishop's headdress-and the mannequin head it usually rests on-on the ground. He looks up in surprise to meet her eyes but... When he sees the direction her gaze rests firmly-his body-he quickly steps towards the bed, grabbing at the sheets self-consciously to cover himself.

"Sorry, I... sorry."

He isn't sure why he's apologizing, but for a moment time stops as Byleth's gaze doesn't move up to meet his eyes, the same expression still stuck on her face.

"..." She says nothing, but clears her throat once. Twice. She forces her voice to thaw and drags up his chest to meet his. "It's fine. I've... I've seen you before."

"Yes. Yes, you have." He flushes in more place than one. "I... should get dressed now."

"That's okay-there's no need to... rush." Her voice gets smaller since, actually, they _do_ have to rush-and the admission that she wants to take his time so she can see more of him only serves to make him redder.

"Excuse me?"

Byleth finds herself busy, reaching down to snatch up her headdress from where it'd tumbled out of her hands moments earlier. Dedue follows suit, quickly grasping onto the first pair of small clothes he sees and hastily pulling them up his legs. His face is still flush as he murmurs quietly, not quite able to look at her just yet in the morning light.

"I'll be ready in ten."

"Good. How do I look?" He hesitates for the shortest of moments before he's brave enough to meet Byleth's languid stare, his eyes touching from the crown of her head to her still bare feet.

"Beautiful." He breathes the word, rather than says it, his reply simple, straightforward, and above all... sincere. Byleth smiles, stepping forward to close the space between him. Affection rushes into his chest, filling him as he bends to receive the kiss he knows is finally coming. He can feel her breath moistening his lips, anticipating her taste as she leans forward with lips already parted-

"Archbishop, Captain, _please_. Newlyweds or not, must I constantly return to remind you _both_ of your duties?" Seteth's urgent voice freezes them into place. "I'd expect this from Byleth, but _Dedue_." At Seteth's incessant scolding, Byleth draws away guiltily to Dedue's great frustration.

_No, no, no._ Could Seteth's timing be any worse?

For a moment, he considers striding across the room, flinging open the door and tossing the green-haired man down the stairs by the hairs of his beard-surely one so ancient could take being rough-handled now and then. Instead, he merely grimaces as Byleth backs away another half-step.

"No. I'm coming now-" As she moves away, Dedue eyes Byleth, his breath shallow with something akin to frustration.

He _knows _her duties are important.

He _knows _he should let her go.

He _knows_ he should taste her _right now_ while he still has the chance-

A stranger's hand snakes out to grasp her forearm. No, not a stranger's-but he's certain he isn't the one in control as Byleth meets his eyes a bewildered stare, her eyebrows furrowed. Dedue draws her forward as if on autopilot, his eyes dark with determination.

A morning kiss. Before she's swept away and becomes the Archbishop again, all he wants is the comforting proof that before she is the world's, she is his, and he is hers. The taste that only his tongue knows. The touch that only his skin knows. The kiss that only their lips share each day beneath the morning sun.

He catches a glimpse of her expression, her eyes drawn to his mouth, and the alluring expression makes him pause. He's certain that his lips feel dry and he moistens them without thinking.

"Dedue?" The sound of her voice breaks the spell, and when Dedue forces himself to let go of her waist, he can see Byleth's flushed cheeks, eyes bright with a bewildered concern he finds strangely appetizing. How mysterious that with a single expression he is tempted to do _much_ more than press his hungry lips to hers. The thought surprises him and Dedue straightens, turning his face to hide his guarded expression, his voice low.

"You should go. House Daphnel... Ingrid shouldn't be kept waiting." She hesitates for a long moment before nodding slowly, her robes fluttering behind her as she quickly slips through the door. Dedue takes a seat on the bed, staring at the wall blankly for a moment.

Then...

He uses both hands to cover his face in embarrassment as he recalls the way he tugged her forward. _Why did he do that?_ _Why did he try to stop her?_ She looked beautiful, true, but she always looks beautiful-especially considering the fact that Byleth wears the same items of clothing every day in her acting role as Archbishop. Did such disappointment from her missing the first meeting of lips honestly warrant such a reaction?

_...No._ He could admit this to himself. And since he is considering such admissions... in a bare, honest moment, he pauses in thought and wonders if he would've been able to stop at just her lips if she has responded as he imagines she would have.

The bright-eyed, languid expression, lips and cheeks flushed, the smallest hint of a smile on her lips...

His mind doesn't stop there, flitting to the way her eyes took in his bare skin, then torturing him to remember way the Archbishop's robes drape across her full body, like a curtain concealing an unforgettably glorious view through a windowpane. He wishes for a moment, that they had the time to remove that curtain together and takes a deep, difficult breath, forcing himself to stand.

_This is not the time or place for such thoughts._

He told her ten minutes, and he is certain more than that has passed. As he dresses in silence, he tries not to sigh wistfully as he pulls a tunic over his broad shoulders.

The things he wouldn't do for a morning kiss.


End file.
